I'm heavy metal, I'm hollow wood
And perhaps, Rory was just as surprised as Jigano at the words that came out of his mouth: it was not something he had thought about, not something he had planned, not something he had dreamed of while sitting idle in a sunspot. It was something he had realized only as he played with Ella on the porch, a bit of soul thawed from the tundra, a glimmer of fish-scales in the sun in a muddy river.
In the silence, he held his breath.
As a child, and a young man, he had dreamed of the world beyond the barrier, of a world where the Demon did not guard the Spire—he had lost his first lover in a skirmish with it, after all, a bunch of youths drunk on arrogance and hope and sheer stubbornness. Rory had watched most of them die, one by one, torn to shreds by that twisted, wicked thing. Rory had ridden the Outskirts, time and time again, looking for a change, looking for a way out, one that wouldn't kill him as it had killed his mad mother, and instead he had found Outlanders.
Remi had, in some way, taught him that his world was a cage, one he was used to battering himself against until he just hung against the bars—and when it was finally opened, it was like he couldn't understand, or was afraid of what was beyond. He shrunk back into the safety of the known, pulling further and further back, into himself, into the cage, until he barely left the farm and the surrounding forests.
He guessed he was afraid of ridicule, of judgment, of the idea of he, the cautious, careful farmer, leaving—going where?
Maybe it was all just stupid.
Maybe he was just stupid.
"When would we go?" Jigano said to his lap, and Rory's fingers gently moved up Ella's muzzle to her face, stroking her eyebrows.
"I was thinking in spring," he responded, surprised that his brain had a plan at all; that it had more than just half-jumbled dreams and ideas. "Find someone to care for the farm, for Bakshi, over summer, and.. and come back in fall, I guess," because open cage or not, Rory was not ready to abandon what he still had here: a functional life, food on the table, a source of relative income (traded goods, traded favors) for what he grew and bred and slaughtered.
But there was a part of him that wanted to ride beyond the horizon of his known world.
In the silence, he held his breath.
As a child, and a young man, he had dreamed of the world beyond the barrier, of a world where the Demon did not guard the Spire—he had lost his first lover in a skirmish with it, after all, a bunch of youths drunk on arrogance and hope and sheer stubbornness. Rory had watched most of them die, one by one, torn to shreds by that twisted, wicked thing. Rory had ridden the Outskirts, time and time again, looking for a change, looking for a way out, one that wouldn't kill him as it had killed his mad mother, and instead he had found Outlanders.
Remi had, in some way, taught him that his world was a cage, one he was used to battering himself against until he just hung against the bars—and when it was finally opened, it was like he couldn't understand, or was afraid of what was beyond. He shrunk back into the safety of the known, pulling further and further back, into himself, into the cage, until he barely left the farm and the surrounding forests.
He guessed he was afraid of ridicule, of judgment, of the idea of he, the cautious, careful farmer, leaving—going where?
Maybe it was all just stupid.
Maybe he was just stupid.
"When would we go?" Jigano said to his lap, and Rory's fingers gently moved up Ella's muzzle to her face, stroking her eyebrows.
"I was thinking in spring," he responded, surprised that his brain had a plan at all; that it had more than just half-jumbled dreams and ideas. "Find someone to care for the farm, for Bakshi, over summer, and.. and come back in fall, I guess," because open cage or not, Rory was not ready to abandon what he still had here: a functional life, food on the table, a source of relative income (traded goods, traded favors) for what he grew and bred and slaughtered.
But there was a part of him that wanted to ride beyond the horizon of his known world.
just shy of greatness, ah, ah
